by Ray Clark
“I see you’ve found your voice at last. Such a sweet little sound, don’t you think, Alfred? You don’t need to know just yet. Not that it would make much difference. You couldn’t do anything about it.”
Chris wrinkled his nose. He could smell stale cigar smoke on the little man’s clothes, and on his breath. He turned his head away from them. “You can’t keep me here forever.”
“I have no wish to.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because I want you here. For now.”
Chris turned on his captors. “Why? When my dad finds out, you’re in for it. He’ll sort you out, both of you. He’s a cop.”
The thought of his father brought a tear to his eye and a lump to his throat. He remembered their recent argument and the things that had been said. He’d made his point, but he didn’t feel any better about it now. He couldn’t understand why he’d done it.
“It’s taken you a while to mention your dad, hasn’t it? I must admit, I wondered when you would. It may come as a shock to you, but I know your father.”
It did come as a shock to Chris. If the little man knew his dad, then why hadn’t they met before? That meant he had a record. It was a thought that terrified Chris. One that regurgitated the memory of his friend David. He felt pressure on his bladder.
“Well, if you do know my dad like you say, then you’ll know what a mistake it is trying to keep me here.” Chris’s bravado made him feel a little better.
“You’re sure about that, are you?”
“Too right, I am. When he finds out I’m here, you’ve had it!”
The little man laughed. “Oh, I doubt it.”
Adrenaline replaced Chris’s fear. “And if the Irishman gets you, you’ll wish you were dead.”
The little man addressed the butler. “Quite the little dreamer, isn’t he, Alfred? If only his father were as good as Christopher thinks he is.”
When the little man turned back to Chris, he noticed the immediate change of expression. The little man’s eyes were like black marbles, and his smile was more a leer, not friendly as it had been so far.
Chris panicked. He’d overstepped the mark. Him and his big mouth. He wished he hadn’t spoken. His bladder reached the bursting point. He didn’t want to soil himself, but at the same time, he didn’t think he’d be allowed to run to the bathroom without it appearing like he was trying to run away.
“Now you listen to me, young man. Your father isn’t going to find you. He hasn’t found the others, has he? Or who’s responsible. Nor has he found their killer.”
Chris’s eyes opened so wide, he thought they were going to pop out and roll down his cheeks. He couldn’t believe how cold eyes became when the eyelids were at their widest aperture.
What did he mean by ‘the others’?
“As a policeman, your father has had his day. He’s finished.”
Chris’s bottom lip trembled. He could feel the awful tightening of his throat, like when he was going to be sick. He hoped he wouldn’t be. He knew the little man wouldn’t be pleased.
He approached Chris and leaned down into his face. “If your father had been any good, he’d have saved your mother.”
“Don’t you dare talk about him like that!” Chris sprang up at such a pace, he launched the breakfast tray into the air. The crockery crashed against the wall, leaving a trail of soggy Weetabix slithering down to the skirting. The butler had taken a step back, nearly losing his balance. The little man was far more agile.
When Chris was on his feet, he had no idea what to do with his short-lived advantage. He saw a raised arm, felt the stinging blow to his cheek. He spun round and hit the bed, holding his face, sobbing. The little man gave him no time to recover, twisting Chris onto his back, and grabbing him by the throat to pin him to the bed.
“You’re going to be sorry, young man. By God, you’re going to be sorry. You see, I’ve now decided that your father is going to come here, because it’s exactly where I want him. I’m going to make him sorry for meddling in my affairs. The pair of you have made me very angry. I’m going to see you pay.”
Hot, steaming urine flooded Chris’s pants.
“He’ll be forced to watch what I do to you. Can you imagine how humiliating that’s going to be? It’ll probably kill him. Which will save me the job.”
The little man turned and left the room. The butler followed, locking the door behind him.
Chris buried his face in his hands, crying, and silently pleading for his dad to help.
Chapter Sixty-nine
“Derek Summers, I’m arresting you under the Obscene Publications Act of 1964.” Briggs glared at Summers with contempt. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Briggs glanced at Reilly. “Take him away.”
Summers stood up from behind his desk, staring at his butler. “Alfred, phone Frederick. Tell him to meet me at the station.”
He turned to Briggs. “When my solicitor’s finished, you’ll realize you’re making a big mistake.”
Briggs ignored Summers as Reilly marched him out to the car. He turned to the other officers present in the room. “Search this place from top to bottom.”
Chapter Seventy
“Gentlemen, I feel it’s time to intervene on my client’s behalf.”
Reilly shot a disapproving glance at Frederick Dawson. It wasn’t the interruption, but the fact that he disliked the obese lawyer as much as his client. Weighing in at around twenty-five stone, Dawson had thinning grey hair with an annoying squint in one eye, which happened to be slightly lower than the other. He was equally as condescending as Summers.
Dawson mopped his brow before he continued, which, as Reilly had counted, was at least the tenth time in as many minutes.
“You’ve had us both here for over an hour. Your questions, I feel, have led us nowhere. You arrested my client in connection with the Obscene Publication Act of 1964. Yet, you’ve presented us with no evidence and asked only a relatively small number of questions concerning the alleged crime. Which my client has strongly denied. Gentlemen, I suggest if you can’t do any better, you’ll have to bail my client pending further inquiries, of course.”
“Of course,” mocked Reilly. “My apologies, Mr Dawson. It’s just that I want to get it straight in my head that your client…” – Reilly pronounced the word with the odium he felt it deserved – “…has no connection whatsoever with the pornographic film industry.”
“My client has said so, more than once.”
“You’re sure about that, Mr Summers? You have never made a pornographic film?”
“No, I’ve told you!” said Summers. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
“And the men that worked for you, who are all now dead, their interest in pornography has nothing to do with you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well now, we have evidence that one had sexual relations with teenage girls. You still deny any involvement?”
“I’m beginning to tire of this, gentlemen. You really have nothing on which to hold my client,” said the corpulent Dawson.
“Now hold your horses, Mr Dawson. I’d like to show both you and your client a DVD which came into our possession recently.”
Reilly noticed Summers had tensed a little.
Frederick Dawson stared at them, confused.
Reilly crossed the room of the interview cell and started the DVD player. Instead of watching the action he’d already seen, he chose instead to monitor the expressions of his captive audience. The film featured Warthead in a panelled library. He was standing in front of a desk. A teenage girl with a frightened expression was stretched across it, performing oral sex on him. After a few minutes, Reilly switched it off.
“What do you make of that, Mr Summers?”
“It’s filth! I really have no idea why you wanted to show it to me.
”
“No?” Reilly feigned surprise. “Have you not seen it before?”
“I most certainly haven’t.” Summers glanced at his solicitor.
The solicitor was clearly taken aback, judging by his astonished expression.
“So, it’s not your library?” said Reilly.
“Pardon?”
“I asked whether or not that sex film was made in your library?”
“Of course it wasn’t. I keep telling you, I don’t make pornography.”
“Gentlemen,” Dawson cut in, holding his hands up in supplication. “You have no proof that the library in question is the one in my client’s home. It could have been anyone’s library.”
“Oh, but we have, Mr Dawson.” Reilly rewound the tape and played it once more, pausing the film at a specific spot. “Take a closer look, both of you. You’ll notice in the background, just on that wall there.” Reilly pointed to the screen. “See the coat of arms, do you not?”
“Which proves what?” said Dawson.
“It proves it’s your client’s library.”
“Nonsense! The coat of arms you’re talking about is not clear enough to make a positive identification. It could be anyone’s.”
Dawson blew out a puff of air and mopped his brow, again.
Briggs intervened, picking up an A4 manila envelope, which had been on the floor near his chair. “We thought you’d say that. So, we took the liberty of asking our experts to enlarge the image of the coat of arms. It’s amazing what they can do these days, isn’t it?”
Briggs passed over the photos. Despite being a little grainy, the design, shape and insignias were all clear enough.
Summers grew flustered.
Briggs pointed at the photo. “If you look at the bottom of the coat of arms, you’ll notice the name ‘Summers’. You see, the Detective Sergeant is extremely observant, not to mention intelligent. Only this morning he drove to Sheffield. There’s a shopping centre called Meadowhall. And down ‘The Lanes’ there’s a shop specializing in name searches. They also have the most comprehensive range of coats of arms we’ve ever seen. And guess what? Here’s yours!” Briggs passed over a computer-generated image.
After allowing the new information to sink in, Reilly asked, “Now, do you still deny it’s your library?”
Summers glared at Reilly. As did Frederick Dawson, his brow furrowed, his concern evident.
“Mr Reilly! Mr Briggs!” Summers said, his attitude no longer condescending. “I had no idea my library was being used for immoral purposes.”
“Did you not? You’ve no idea who’s having sex across your desk?”
“None at all. Believe me, I shall get to the bottom of this.”
“So will we.”
“I have to tell you gentlemen that I do spend a lot of time out of town attending conferences,” said Summers.
His condescending grin was really beginning to irritate Reilly.
“You’re saying that all of the illegal material has been filmed in your absence?”
“Most certainly. I can tell you, as I have done on many occasions, I am not connected to any paedophile ring, nor have I any interest in the type of filth you’ve shown me.”
Reilly noted a return of confidence in the agent’s manner.
“Yes, I appreciate that. But you see, we have a wee bit more incriminating evidence. If you look at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen, you’ll notice the time and date. It tells me, as it should you, that the production – despite being reasonable quality – is an amateur one. It’s been made on a video camera, not a film camera.”
Summers’ face tightened and the colour drained. “Er, yes, I had noticed.”
Briggs took over. “So, can we clarify it is your library?”
“Er, yes, Mr Briggs, it is.”
“Good. Because it just so happens we still have your diaries with us.” Reilly reached down the side of his chair, placing the books on the table in front of them.
“You’ll notice,” continued Briggs, “that when the pornographic film was made, you were not out of town at all. In fact, the exact date and time shows us you had a meeting. At home. Doesn’t say who with. Would you like to enlighten us, Mr Summers?”
Derek Summers was ashen.
Reilly noticed his hard swallow. At last, he felt he had the bastard.
“You seem to have lost your tongue. Which is a pity, because you’ve quite a lot more explaining to do, so you have. For example, why are four men with a taste for young girls, who worked for you, now dead? What’s happened to the children who were abducted and forced to take part in the sex films? Who killed David Vickers? Who’s the man with the warts?”
Both Briggs and Dawson remained silent, but the solicitor’s expression was grave.
Summers bowed his head, shaking it.
Reilly slammed his hand down hard on the table.
Summers jumped.
As Reilly piled on the pressure, his voice rose. “What I really want to know is, where’s my partner’s son? Detective Inspector Gardener, the man with the hat. He has a son who’s missing now. He went to the same school as David Vickers. Who’s now dead! So too are the teenage girls in the film, I imagine.”
Dawson’s head bobbed up and down and from side to side as he glanced from Briggs to Reilly to Summers.
“I want to know where my partner’s son is.” Reilly pronounced each word and banged the desk more than once. His control went AWOL as he dragged Summers out of his chair by the scruff of his neck. “Where is he?”
Summers cracked under the relentless pressure. “No, please, stop him.”
Dawson clambered out of his seat and waved a finger. “I really must protest your attitude towards my client.” The agent’s brow was a mass of sweat. His eyes dilated.
Briggs finally intervened. “For Christ’s sake, Sean. Let him go!”
Reilly pulled Summers closer still. “You know where he is, don’t you?”
“Detective Sergeant Reilly,” shouted a panting Dawson.
Summers screamed like a frightened child. “Please, get him off me. I’ve never killed anyone.”
Briggs managed to break Reilly’s hold. The Irishman backed off, still blazing.
“Can I have a word in private, Sean?” Briggs asked, already walking toward the door.
Outside, in the corridor, he went on the attack.
“Jesus Christ, Sean! Have you lost your bloody marbles? In front of his solicitor, as well!”
Reilly lowered his voice. “That bastard’s guilty, and you know it.”
“I’ll admit the evidence is stacked against him,” said Briggs. “But there’s still a long way to go, and without a confession, we have to keep pushing.”
As Briggs went back to the door, he turned to face Reilly before opening it. “Let me take it from here.”
Briggs returned to face Summers and Dawson.
It was Dawson who spoke. “That was the most appalling behaviour I’ve ever seen from a policeman. I shall, of course, be filing a complaint, and probably a lawsuit.”
Dawson mopped his brow yet again.
“Feel free to do what you want. But until I’m satisfied of your client’s innocence, he’s staying in custody. Now, if you’d like to come back tomorrow, we’ll resume questioning him.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this.”
“No, I don’t suppose we have,” replied Briggs.
Dawson turned his attention to Summers. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Derek. Don’t you worry about a thing. Don’t say a word to anyone without me.”
Summers merely nodded, too distraught to reply.
Reilly watched as Dawson left, oblivious to the solicitor’s scowl.
Chapter Seventy-one
Shortly after six o’clock, when Reilly had calmed down, he tried to contact Gardener for the fourth time. His superior’s mobile was still switched off.
He called Malcolm, who confirmed he had not heard from his son.
Reilly leaned
back in his chair and sighed, concerned.
He’d sent him into the city. He would have to go and retrieve him.
Chapter Seventy-two
Gardener shook himself awake and groaned. He felt rough, groggy. He struggled to focus. The pain in his head resembled a hangover. Every muscle in his body ached, especially his ribs. Gardener’s mouth was dry. Remnants of a coppery taste lingered. His eyes cleared. His vision returned.
Gardener tried to raise himself, but the soreness in his ribs wouldn’t allow much freedom of movement. He became aware of how tender his face was. His left cheek appeared to be housing a tennis ball underneath the skin. He touched it, wishing he hadn’t.
“Keep still. You’ll hurt yourself.” The voice was deep and resonant.
Gardener glanced in its direction and understood why.
It must have been the man they call The Bear. At least he hoped it was. As the giant strolled toward him, he towered over Gardener. He was at least seven feet tall, built like a barn door without an ounce of fat. His chiselled features seemed to have been carved from a block of granite. He had a thick head of glossy black hair. He was dressed in a boiler suit and Doc Martens boots. Gardener’s stomach turned at the sight of him. He would have given anything to run screaming from the nearest exit. Not that he could see one.
The man extended a hand towards Gardener. “Slowly. Your ribs are bruised.”
Gardener glanced around, realizing it was a hand of friendship. He finally accepted the help and struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. The giant assisted Gardener over to a table and chairs.
He had no idea where he was. The room must have been underground somewhere, perhaps a large viaduct. The bricks were in good shape, and someone had taken great care to make the refuge a home. Along one wall, a blazing fire roared. Gardener noticed another vagrant roasting something on a spit. It wasn’t anything he immediately recognized, and he thought better of asking. Apart from the table and chairs, they also had a three-piece suite, a couple of beds, cupboards, a drinks cabinet, a TV, and a Freeview box.